The Vine and the Mirror
by Fear-Of-The-Cold
Summary: What you see and what you hear depends a great deal on where you are standing. It also depends on what sort of person you are.


_A/N: This is technically a crossover. However it really only briefly borrows some characters and locations rather than mixing them in entirely, so I've just posted it here. And I don't think I've made it to difficult to figure out what its crossed with…_

The war still waged overhead as the lieutenant found himself falling...falling…

Only moments earlier he had been in the burning wreckage that he was now watching strike the ground violently below him. As he drifted gradually closer to the ground, only vaguely attempting to control the violent swing of his parachute, he found his eyes drifting back upwards to the planes still battling above him. The Messerschmitts and Spitfires dove and duck amongst the bombers. Bombers heading to Berlin, or at least attempting to get there. To drop their payload on the unsuspecting citizens, who perhaps would have just enough warning to gather their belongings and dash to their shelters.

Or at least, this was how he imagined it would be. Imagined it was, in Berlin, and home in London when the counterstrike came. When the warnings rang out, and four small children would run for shelter because their father had bombed Berlin, and it was time to strike back…

He tore his eyes away from the scene above, and looked downward, trying to get a sense of the countryside he would soon need to navigate. There wasn't much to see in the dark other than trees except what appeared to be a large light, high on a tower some miles off. As the wind pushed his parachute nearer the light, he saw more clearly that the light was atop a guard tower, and that it was not one light but two...then three. He wondered what he was seeing until he noticed that the lights were shining over what appeared to be a high fence of barbed wire.

 _Well,_ he thought to himself, _looks like I won't be bombing Berlin much longer…_

88888888

Corporal Peter Newkirk crouched in the cold dark woods for the third night in a row. He shivered slightly, and frowned at his surroundings, already dreaming of his mostly warm bed in a mostly lumpy mattress. His nightshirt and blanket may be threadbare, but at least he would be indoors and safe instead of out here in black trying to blend in with the night.

"Boy, they're really giving it to the boys tonight," Sergeant Andrew Carter whispered from his own hiding space a few feet away.

Carter was right. The Jerries were everywhere in the sky, not to mention the anti-aircraft guns below. They'd already seen plenty of planes fall, though all had either been to far from their current position for them to help, or the plane had gone down in such fire that the two soldiers did not bother to search for survivors.

Another such plane was screaming toward the ground now, ablaze and heading for a nasty impact. Newkirk winced at the noise as the plane struck the earth, too close to their position for comfort.

"C'mon Carter," Newkirk whispered, motioning to his friend, "We need to get out of here before the Krauts come looking."

He stood up from his crouch, and at first so did Carter.

"Newkirk wait!" Carter exclaimed, "Look up."

Newkirk looked up at Carter's direction, and soon enough saw what the Sergeant had seen. Floating down from the hellfire sky was soldier attached to a billowing parachute. And he was headed straight for them.

Before Newkirk could stop him, Carter straightened fully and began to wave at the man dropping towards them, beckoning him closer.

"Dammit Carter, quit your waving! We don't know who's side he's on!"

Carter didn't even have the grace to look sheepish.

"Well golly Newkirk, you're the one who's always complaining about how far we have to walk to bring these guys in. I thought I'd bring them to us for a change!" Carter grinned at Newkirk's' unimpressed expression, "Besides, you need your eyes checked. Even I can tell from here he's one of our boys. Or more specifically, one of yours I guess."

Newkirk scowled but didn't disagree. As the man floated closer he saw that Carter was correct. The man _was_ RAF. In fact, if Newkirk less keen eyes were not mistaken, the man was an RAF Lieutenant.

 _Just what we need,_ thought Newkirk, _another bloomin' officer._

The lieutenant finally touched down in a clearing some 50 feet away from their position, and Newkirk had to scramble after Carter as the other man ran to find the latest in a long line of downed flyers the two had brought it. He managed to put a hand on Carter's shoulder just before the other man burst into the clearing, and put a finger to his lips. No matter what uniform the other man wore, it was best not to surprise a man who had just fallen from an airplane into enemy territory.

He gestured to Carter to follow, and silently picked his way closer to the edge of the trees. Once there, he peeked into the clearing. And saw no one. Nothing but an empty parachute and harness lying on the ground, still being ruffled by the wind.

 _Well he ran off rather quick didn't he,_ Newkirk thought with a frown.

He turned to Carter to tell him to search the area. And found himself face to face with the business end of a gun.

Newkirk took a sharp breath in surprise as he took in the scene in front of him. The downed RAF Lieutenant held his weapon pointed in Newkirk's face with one hand. The other was wrapped around Carter's neck with the hand pressed firmly against the other man's mouth.

"Halt," the downed flyer said in a threatening undertone, "Hand hoch."

As the man instructed him to raise his hands, Newkirk breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment he had thought they had been duped, that the man was a Kraut in disguise after all. Until the man had attempted to speak German and it had come out in a London accent that is.

"Easy there lieutenant," Newkirk said calmly as he raised his hands, "Believe it or not, we're here to help."

The lieutenant blinked, but did not release his grip on Carter.

"You're...English?"

"That's what they tell me," Newkirk tried to smile encouragingly as he slowly lowered a hand to extend to the lieutenant, "Corporal Peter Newkirk sir, at your service. Now if you don't mind relaxing your grip on my friend Carter there, what say we help you get on your way back to jolly ole England eh?"

The other man stared at him consideringly for a moment before slowly removing his hand from Carter's mouth and releasing the near chokehold on his neck. The gun was also lowered slowly, though it dropped faster when Carter spoke.

"Gee that's quite the grip you've got there sir," Carter said as he shook his head slightly, "I'm Carter by the way, Andrew Carter. Umm, also at your service I suppose."

The lieutenant took a deep breath and finally shook Newkirk's outstretched hand as he nodded to Carter.

"Lieutenant Arthur Pevensie," he stated, "At yours."

88888888

"How're you settling in sir?" Newkirk asked over his shoulder as he tidied a rack of uniforms in one of the closets in the tunnel of Stalag 13.

Lieutenant Pevensie looked up from the book he was reading while lying back in one of the visitors cots. He no longer wore his RAF uniform, just a simple set of civilian clothes.

"About as well as can be expected," he replied, "Thank you Corporal. Though I must admit, I don't like the idea of getting to settled. I'd like to be back in England."

Newkirk turned back to him again to give the lieutenant a long suffering smile.

 _These fliers,_ he thought, _it's like they think we want them here for us to wait on night and day._

"Of course sir," he replied, trying to sound like he hadn't said the same thing to half a dozen other airmen that week alone, "I expect you've got a girl back in London waiting for you then."

Pevensie set the book down and swung his legs over the cot.

"I expect you've got a dozen, from that tone Corporal," Pevensie grinned wryly, then his face became somber, "But I apologize. You must be tired of hearing the complaints of men who are heading home, whilst you remain trapped here with the enemy."

Newkirk paused in his tidying and considered the other man for a moment. He wasn't exactly accustomed to consideration from officers, particularly other Londoners like Pevensie. They usually took one look at him and dismissed him.

"Well I wouldn't exactly call this trapped," he gestured around the tunnels, "But I appreciate the sentiment."

He straightened the sleeve of the last jacket and, at Pevensie's gesture, took a seat at the end of the cot.

"Will you stay long in London once your back do you think sir?"

"Not long enough to look up any old girlfriends for you I'm afraid Corporal," Pevensie laughed and Newkirk gave a small grin, "No, I expect it will be a brief visit and then back to base. But with any luck, a few days with my wife. I expect Helen has been beside herself since news of my being shot down reached London."

He trailed off a bit with the thought of his wife. Newkirk shifted uncomfortably. Marriage talk was not his area of expertise.

"Should've known you'd be married, being an officer and all," he said, "And you'll be back in London to put her mind at ease soon enough I'm sure, just as soon as the Gestapo heat dies down out there."

The lieutenant raised an eyebrow, sensing Newkirk's awkwardness. Newkirk cleared his throat, not truly wanting to carry on small talk with an officer, but it had been months since they'd had another Londoner pass through. If nothing else, just hearing the lieutenant's crisp London accent reminded Newkirk of...well, of stiff-backed toffs turning their noses up at him really. _I really have been here to long if I'm getting homesick for that._ But as the saying went, beggars can't be choosers...

"Ahh, have you got kids then to sir?"

"Yes," Pevensie nodded, sounding slightly surprised at Newkirk's interest, "Four actually. Two boys, two girls. My oldest is Peter too, as a matter of fact."

"That right," Newkirk said, "Well I'm sure they'll keep you busy while you're in London then."

"They're not in London," Pevensie's eyes tightened, "They were evacuated, because of the air raids. They are living at some old professor's house, out in the country."

Newkirk sighed, disappointed.

"That's to bad sir. I mean, good that they're away safe. But to bad you'll miss them."

"Yes," Pevensie replied, his thoughts drifting, "Susan, my oldest girl, she just turned 14. I'll just miss it, as I've missed the last ones..."

He pulled a small picture from his inside pocket and turned it to show Newkirk.

"That's Susan," he pointed to the tall dark haired girl on the far left of the picture next to a woman who appeared to be the same girl only 20 years older, "Standing next to her mum. That's Lucy in front of them, the youngest. And Ed, next to her. And that there's Peter, in the back there."

Newkirk looked silently for a moment at the smiling family, mother and daughters holding close while the younger boy tried to hold himself apart while still leaning into his mum. And the eldest boy, Peter, a tall lad with shaggy blonde hair stood slightly behind all of them with a protective gaze.

"How olds the lad?" Newkirk asked, pointing at Peter.

"Fifteen," Pevensie sighed, "To young to be put in charge of his siblings. But I'm glad they're together at least."

He tucked the photo back into his jacket.

"He'll be alright," Newkirk said quietly, "You'd be surprised how much growing up a kid can do when they have to."

Then Newkirk surprised himself by pulling out a photo of his own. This one showed only one child, a babe barely holding himself up. Newkirk tilted the photo toward the lieutenant.

"Yours?" Pevensie asked, glancing at the picture.

"Not likely," Newkirk snorted, "He's my sisters boy. Just a wee thing."

He pulled his cap from his head to run a hand through his hair.

"I've never met the little chap. Way this ruddy wars going, he'll be running circles 'round your bunch before I do."

"I doubt that Corporal," Pevensie grinned softly and clapped Newkirk on the back, "We'll end this and be off home before you know it."

"I'd like to think so sir," Newkirk have a small grin in return, "But until then, there's work to be done, and roll calls to attend."

He stood up and returned his cap to his head.

"Let me know if there's anything I can get for you sir. We'll be done with roll call in a jiff."

The lieutenant nodded thanks, though he appeared somewhat surprised by Newkirk's abrupt departure. Newkirk turned and left to head towards the barracks entrance.

"Corporal?"

"Yes sir?" Newkirk turned around, nearly around the first corner at that point.

"What's your sisters name?" Pevensie asked as he pulled a page from his book and a pen from his pocket.

"Ahh Mavis sir," Newkirk replied, confused, and cringing at the ripped page, "Mavis Newkirk. Well, Mavis Stafford now I suppose."

"Mavis Stafford," Pevensie nodded and jotted a note, "And I suppose she lives in London as well."

"She does," Newkirk nodded, "Cable street."

Pevensie made another note and tucked the page into his jacket, in the same pocket that the picture had disappeared to earlier.

"Very well Corporal, that will be all," Pevensie nodded briskly, then smiled warmly, "We'll see if we can't get you some news of London after all."

Newkirk coloured slightly that the lieutenant had guessed the reason for his interest in a fellow Londoner. He stepped back towards Pevensie and stuck his hand out, much as he had done several nights previously.

"Thank you sir," he replied sincerely, "I mean it, you don't have to do that and I...well, thanks."

"Least I can do Corporal," Pevensie said, grasping his hand, "You're sending me home."


End file.
